A Chance In A Million
by Knack For the UnWritten
Summary: AU!Finnrey - A story of boy meets girl, missed opportunities, near misses and second chances; Finn's life changes when he meets Rey in London's busy underground, if only for a couple of seconds. [Possibly OOC, based on my own interpretation and love for these two idiots] R&R please!
1. Chapter 1

**I** t began on the underground.

The five working days of the week all comprised of one, boring element: routine. The variations were so bland they might as well not have bothered. London was supposed to be a bright centre of the planet. People would give anything for the opportunity to live there but the city was exacting in its payment once you made it. Read the fine print. London was grey and white and rainy. And crowded.

Days began early and ended late. In a small flat in Tufnell Park, Finn's day started with the urgent buzzing of his phone alarm. It bleated insistently in the dark bedroom. He rolled over with a groan, fumbling across the mattress for the glowing phone on the bedside table. Awkward, sleepy fingers managed to shut it off and up. Then he was left with a room he knew better in the dark than the light of day. He was gone while the sun was still waking up, back when it was going to bed, and out most of the weekend. His room was a stranger. That explained its total lack of housekeeping, at least.

He scratched his hair and forced his body out of bed. Warm sheets were replaced by a cold flush of fresh stale air. It was June, but his room faced west and was always chilly in the mornings. He compensated by moving fast. He left the door open to encourage some fresh air in and staggered into the shower. It was a small, sad thing that desperately needed updating. The toilet was wedged behind the door and always seemed in need of cleaning. There were two of them in the flat and not one of them every expressed the least interest in doing something about it. Midway down the room was a bathroom unit whose wall recess behind the taps was crowded with hair gel and deodorant cans. He pulled the cable over the mirror and rubbed his jaw. The stubble prickled his hands and stood out in his reflection. He grimaced at it and headed to the far end of the little bathroom. He pulled aside the shower curtain, decorated with orange and white circles, and cranked up the hot water.

The routine had begun. He never started anything in the shower until the tiles were shiny with steam. Finn dunked his head under the water and dragged his hands through his scalp, and slowly massaged it. He pumped the shower gel with the base of his palm and rubbed it vigorously into his skin: arms, underarms, shoulders, torso, thighs. The smell woke him up more than he hot water did. The moment that hit the steam he felt as though his day really started and, yawning into the water, began to rinse.

A good ten minutes and handfuls of shampoo later and he was out. Finn pulled a worn orange towel around his hips, hugging against his legs. He dressed in a pair of work trousers which smelled clean, a white shirt that definitely was, and a light worn jacket that had never been washed but like all good jackets would never tell. He managed to avoid contact with his flatmate while he stuffed bread into the toaster and flicked on the kettle. Conversation before eight was a crime. He leaned against the bench top and tucked one hand into his armpit, the other hand out and scrolling through his phone.

There were a handful of appointments at work today. Not enough to fill it, but that was fine - there was always something to do. The toast popped and the kettle boiled. Fed and watered and teeth brushed, he was out of the flat and down the narrow stairs twenty minutes later. He slung his brown messenger bag over his shoulder, the earbuds into his ears, and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

Routine.

The red tiles of Tufnell Park station came into view once he rounded the corner. The flat was tiny and the interior walls paper thin, but when it came to price and location it was unbeatable. Running late, he could swipe the Oyster card within four minutes of leaving the flat, but his alarm was usually reliable, and there was no rush this morning. He entered the lift, squashing against the wall with the other early risers heading into rush hour, and when it settled he headed down the steps for the Southbound platform.

The train was only a minute away. It announced itself with a rush of cold air and a flash of light, rolling alongside the platform like a great, blind, worm. The carriages were half full, and few people were getting off here at this time of day. Finn had little difficulty getting on and finding a seat between two men in sharper suits than his - he consoled himself with the knowledge that he had better socks. He glanced down at them. Orange and red stripes today.

Finn changed at Tottenham Court Road. This time there were a good deal of commuters getting both off and on and practice and skill alone had him manoeuvring his lean, broad-shouldered frame through the swarms of people. Mornings had one advantage in rush hour. Everyone was fresh from showering. They smelled good, they were clean. This was not the case after five o'clock. Especially not in summer; this was the summer that kept giving, and despite the cool start it had the promise of being a hotter day. He crossed the catwalk over the tracks and headed for the Westbound Central Line platform. He made it to the platform just as the train pulled in and as Stormtroop Fire's 'We Used to Wait' started on his mp3 player.

One of the rules of riding on the tube is that you keep to yourself. You don't make eye contact with anyone else. For however long you are jammed into the train it is polite to pretend you are an island; and nobody else exists. Don't look, don't talk, acknowledge only if you absolutely must and then keep this brief and to the point. And when the painful acknowledgement is done - go back to your individual islands until the agony is over and you can disembark. This is all very polite. It is expected.

Expected and automatic. That was why Finn didn't notice the girl in the beige dress until they were pulling out of Bond Street Station.

If Finn was honest with himself (which he liked to think he was, brutally and often) then he would admit he was a romantic at heart. Experimental and romantic, but even he did not think these moments really happened. He'd met a few people who said it had happened to them, and he'd always written it off as exaggeration. But here he was. With his own moment, and the moment's short, dark brown hair was matching the beige of her dress.

He broke the rule of the tube. She was just there, a blatant temptation to break every rule if ever he'd seen one. She stood with one arm wrapped around the pole over by the door at the extreme end of the carriage, two doors down from Finn. Her dress was light and breezy over white tanned arms and legs and from here, she didn't look the least bit bothered by the morning chill. Her feet were encased in a chunky pair of white heels, buckled on the side, a rather severe addition to her dainty dress and the fine silver charm bracelet around her wrist. Or at least, it looked like a charm bracelet, from this distance. He thought he would recognise one.

She was reading, holding a paperback whose spine was smashed because she was able to double the pages over to hold it just with he arm linked around the pole. Her body leaned gently into it and he could see the points of contact through her dress. Hip and shoulder. Finn couldn't really see her face, her head was bowed and the book she held obscuring her features. Then she looked up and right at him.

Ordinarily, that would have been enough for Finn to look quickly away and pretend he had been doing anything other than staring at her. But there was something else at work here, something behind the scenes so he just kept looking. And smiled.

The girl with the short dark brown hair smiled back. It was a little slow in coming but appeared seemingly of its own accord, tugging at the corners of her lips until the rest of her decided that it was okay to smile at a stranger on the tube. She was gorgeous, Finn thought, her features beautifully formed and definitely easy on the eyes. Her face was square and perfectly suited to smiling. If first impressions were anything, it was that this was a girl who laughed a lot.

The train pulled into Marble Arch. Eye contact was broken as people rose to get out, shouldering against those who could not wait long enough to get in. The carriage fattened up with passengers and Finn couldn't see her any more. He didn't even know if she was still on the train until they were almost at Lancaster Gate - his stop - and he saw a flash of beige.

Finn stood. He needed to get off here. The carriage thinned again as more people disembarked than got on, by accident or miracle, and he paused with his hand on the central pole and looked back up the length of the carriage. She was still there, eyes on her book again, which was held closer to her body now against the press of people. The doors closed. Finn remained on the train. A disembodied announcement came over as it always did, and the train began to move forward and gather speed: This is a Central Line Train to Ealing Broadway.

The girl looked up from her book. She was standing with her legs apart, braced in case of any sudden jars. She rode the tube often, then. She smiled at him again, closed-lipped but genuine, and offered a little good morning nod.

Finn returned it with a jaunty, amused smile. He laughed softly out loud, but the train was noisy enough to drown it. This was stupid! She was reading her book again and Finn knew he should go over there and talk to her, because the next stop could be her last and the chances of ever seeing her again were slim. He'd never seen her before and beige dress or not, he was sure he would have noticed her then if he had noticed her now. He didn't really give much credence to fate or destiny but something was going on here. But he didn't move. It felt like a greater offence than looking at her; talking to her was breaking more than an unspoken rule, it was breaking a spell.

He looked at the darkened window instead so he could stare at her blurry reflection instead of her directly. After a few moments he realised she was no longer pretending to read the book. She was looking out the dark windows too and gazing at him. In tandem, they looked back at each other and he swore he heard her laugh just as the breaks sounded and they slowed into Queensway.

Now, or never.

The doors opened and a rush of people came in, and once they had cleared enough he realised she was no longer on the train. No beige dress, no dark brown hair. The doors closed and took Finn even further from his own station.

This is Central Line Train to Ealing Broadway.

Finn's heart did a peculiar thing. It sank right down to the bottom of his stomach where it settled, heavy and flat and confused. He hoped he would see the girl in the beige dress again, but thought that was probably a foolish notion.

He would see her again but it wouldn't be for a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**H** e stood over the camera and tripod, shoulders rolled forward, legs spread and head bent low. Finn adjusted the camera settings. The family through the lens waited patiently and for about the eighth time since the shoot had begun, Finn thanked the universe that his family wasn't like this one.

Okay, perhaps that was unfair. There was nothing wrong with them, but the relationships were definitely strained. Finn had photographed enough people by now to be able to see the truth through the lens. His naked eye was not nearly as perceptive as its full potential, realised when he was behind a camera. A cursory glance at this family and one might think the issue was with the young, teenage son. His dyed black hair was floppy, his eyes outlined with pencil and jeans torn. No. The tension was obvious through the lens. The daughter was the centre of the drama. It was evident in the way she held herself, the minimal, though definite, distance between her and he adults. And it was Finn's job to find the right angle to make their attempt at Happy Families work in glossy prints.

The studio was dark. He had the family against a neutral, well-lit backdrop that could be edited however they wanted it later. It was a good space, the equipment excellent, and in the five years he had worked here he had learned how to make the most out of it. His technique was flawless. The inspiration was somewhat lacking.

Finn took a few more shots and looked up. "That's good. I think we've got it."

The family adults thanked him and left. Finn packed up and took his time with it. There were no pending appointments directly after this one, he could afford to wait until he was sure they were gone. He didn't know what it was, but he preferred not to chat with clients outside the studio. Not after he'd seen them through the lens.

Poe was at the desk when he headed into reception. It was stylishly and dramatically lit. One wall was covered in silver matte wallpaper with dark black swirls styled across it, and sitting in front of it were long, cushioned, narrow couches. They faced the counter, the hutch concealing whoever was manning it, so the visitor's attention was directed to the framed photographs clustered over the wall opposite. Most of the work up there was Poe's own, with a few of Finn's better shots squeezed there too. Two windows on either side of the door struggled to stream natural light in, but the position of the building didn't allow for much. It gave the reception area a dramatic feel, entirely befitting of an upmarket portrait studio.

His employer was reading.

"Hello sweetie. Having fun?"

"Yeah. Working. Unlike..." he raised his eyebrows at him.

Poe turned the page. "I pay you to work. You should read this. It's good."

He rested his elbows on the high counter and leaned over. He peered at the book. "Yeah? What's it about?"

Poe flipped it back, leaving his thumb in the centre, and looked at the cover. "It's about a man in a distant galaxy who leaves a space nazi organisation after a change of heart and a very dashing ace pilot."

"Sounds shit."

"It's quite romantic actually."

"Oh?"

"They're pretty gay for each other."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. They hug a lot, and often stare into each other's eyes. Don't make that noise. You haven't read it."

Finn turned his head to the side to read the author's name, printed beneath the title. "Rey Skywalker. Never heard of her."

"You should read more. This is the second book in the series. Quite a hit." Poe flipped back to his marked page and resumed reading. Airily and without conviction, he added, "get back to work."

Finn had known Poe for a long time. They had met through a mutual acquaintance during his time at the London College of Communication. Finn had been in his final year, the final of four long, hard years of study. His BA was within reach and he was creatively on fire, shooting pictures which he stared at in astonishment when developed. I did that?

And there he peaked.

He still couldn't explain what had happened. Shots which framed themselves so easily, perfect exposure, perfect imagery faded. He was finally free of school and able to go anywhere and photograph anything he wanted - make his mark - and he fell completely short. The inspiration was exhausted.

Then he met Poe for the second time. They left the party together and went to a different bar, where they sat on stools and drank pint after pint. Poe had to be twice his age, though Finn was smart enough never to ask, and he thought he was the most alluring men he'd ever met. Finn still thought that. Poe wore tailored suits in either black or white, constrating his olive skin colour, with penny loafers that were always glossy black or a violent shade of red, he was thin-lipped, square jawed and athletic and had a head full of dark combed hair, unless he was working. Poe said he didn't give a fuck what anyone else thought, but Finn knew him well enough now to know that wasn't true. Still, he admired his resilience.

They were somewhere between their fourth and fifth pints and he was pouring out his broken, photographer's heart to him and Poe had finally gotten drunk enough to stop humouring Finn.

"Oh will you stop! You take it far too seriously. Far too seriously. It's just photography. Christsakes!"

Finn had thought that was easy enough for him to say, since Poe was a professional photographer with heis own studio, and had been successful for the past twenty odd years. He told him that with far less eloquence.

"Okay. Fine. I'll spoil it for you. Inspiration is a myth. Confidence is the only thing that matters. A good photographer is inspired. A great photographer is confident, and then the inspiration comes. You're falling behind. Drink faster."

"I don't even know what the fuck you're telling me," Finn had answered. He downed the last of his pint glass, the liquid hit his stomach like a hammer. "I want to take great pictures. Photographs are... the essence -"

"Oh god no, stop, I can't listen to that rubbish," Poe had dismissed that attempt at explaining the essence of photography at once, before Finn could get to his borrowed piece about its importance in the history of civilisation. "Two kinds of photographers. Good ones and bad ones. It's your shout."

Finn had ordered two more pints. "Don't want to be a bad one."

"Then don't be a bad one."

"Can't help it. Happening."

"If you can't stop complaining you're not coming home with me tonight."

"Am I coming home with you tonight?"

"If you can stop complaining."

That was how he started sleeping with him. Finn had never met anyone who was so easily able to slot people into their proper pigeonholes. Sex and love had nothing to do with the other as far as Poe was concerned. They never spent a full night together but filled a need the other had, though Finn never found out if his was anything more than carnal.

Six months later they were still sleeping together, off and on, though Finn was pretty certain Poe was seeing someone else. One afternoon as they lay, legs damp and bare and tangled in her white sheets, a wedge of weak sunlight splayed across the mattress, Finn showed him the latest photographs he had taken. They were family shots at taken at Christmas.

"Boring, but your technique is superb," he commented. "I need help at the studio. You should work for me."

And that was how he had come to work for Poe.

It was meant to be temporary. Even now, as he looked up at the portrait shots they had taken framed upon the wall over Poe's head, he thought of how bored he was with this. It wasn't what he wanted, but it was better than working at Tesco to pay rent. And Poe paid well, he could afford to share a flat in London. He had thought he could use this work to get by and take the kind of photographs he wanted on the side and then do something with them. Five years later it hadn't happened, he was still here. Little had changed. It had been almost a year since he had last slept with Poe (he lived with someone now) but he was still taking family portraits or wedding photos. The elusive inspiration had not returned, and his confidence waned. He knew Poe liked having him there but he was beginning to sense disappointment.

"Then take proper ones."

Finn glanced down. Poe was still gazing down at his book but rather than reading the pages he was reading his mind. Finn began to reach for an old excuse, but Poe was faster.

"If you had the chance to go back in time and stop something terrible from happening, would you do it?"

"Like what, depends."

"Anything. That's not the point of the question."

"Look, that's hard to answer unless it's specific - fine. No. I wouldn't." Beat. "But I would photograph it."

Poe looked up. That had gotten a smile out of him. "Good answer. Now get back to work. Those Jarrah prints won't sort themselves out."

Finn did as he asked and drew the task out until they closed at four. It was Friday, and Poe profaned working past four on a Friday. The evening passed in favourite haunts in Camden with mates and then he was up early on Saturday morning to photograph another wedding. The bridal party photographs were all taken in Postman's Park which he thought a grim, but strangely beautiful choice. Finn stayed back long after they had gone and took some photographs for his own benefit. Every time the shutter closed he saw another disappointing developed shot.

Finn's fingers were freezing. It was late November and finally beginning to feel like winter was on the way. He carefully stored his equipment away with icy hands and got on the tube at St Paul's. He headed for the westbound platform and looked up at the digital clock hanging overhead. Four minutes until the next train on the Central Line. He sat in one of the hard red benches and set his bag between his feet, resting his forearms on his knees and leaning forward.

It had been approximately three months since the moment with the girl in the beige dress. He hadn't seen her since, though he had taken the same route every day. It was impossible, he told himself. Even if, by some miracle, they were on the same train, then what were the chances of getting on the same compartment? Sometimes there were so many people that he would not have been able to see her if she were three metres away. She might not even live in London. For all he knew, she was a New Zealander or something, on holidays. But she had been there, she had been real and he hadn't been comparing every girl he saw since to her memory. Okay, perhaps that last one was a lie.

Three months and every time he rode the Central Line he thought of her. Looked for her. Five days a week and today, that made it six. Well actually, he corrected himself, that's ten times a week because you ride it twice a day, which makes it twelve times this week.

Oh shut up.

Not counting the inbetween times.

No really. Shut up.

Finn raised his eyes, forehead crinkling, and stared at an enormous careers ad plastered to the curved wall on the other side of the tracks until the train pulled into the station.

Later, he would realise his mistake. She was so deeply imprinted in his memory wearing that beige dress, he remembered the exact hue, with her hair short and neaty, that he had been unable to imagine her any other way. Well, any other way fit for polite society. There was a handful of people scattered in the carriage and he glanced at them all, as he always did now, but she wasn't wearing the beige dress. And he almost missed her.

He sat down. The train pulled out, his body swaying sideways.

This is a Central Line service to Ealing Broadway. The next station is Chancery Lane.

Nobody left, but a few more bodies filed in. Finn had forgotten his mp3 player. Enduring the world without music was torture.

This is a Central Line service to Ealing Broadway. The next station is Holborn.

More people left than came in, which he thought odd, given its proximity to the British Museum on a Saturday. Then he went back to thinking about what he would be listening to, if he had something to listen to.

This is a Central Line service to Ealing Broadway. The next station is Tottenham Court Road.

Finn stood up and pulled his bag of equipment over one shoulder, hanging diagonally across his body. He walked to the doors and leaned against the hard, transparent plastic, watching the station blur into view. He needed to transfer here. The door hissed open. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform. He walked down the platform and happened to glance inside the carriage, toward the far end from where he had sat.

And that was when he realised his mistake.

She wasn't in a beige dress. It was cold. She was wearing jeans and a big dark coat, most of her dark brown hair concealed beneath a knitted beanie with braided wool hanging down her shoulders and a gigantic pompom sitting up ridiculously at the back of her head. The moment he saw her, the girl's gaze fell on him. Her eyes widened as large as saucers.

Finn froze. She stood up inside the train and then they were both moving, propelled by forces inexplicable, but before either of them reached the nearest door they hissed shut and sealed. Finn swore, cursing his unbelievably bad luck. He had seen her! That figure at the end! She had been on the train the entire time! Her hand slapped against the window and he had a final glimpse of her as the train pulled away. She smiled.

Finn stepped quickly back as the train picked up speed. It was going too fast. The wind kicked up as it rushed away from him and he snapped his eyes up to the digital clock. Four minutes until the next one. He could follow her... where? He couldn't follow, not when he had no idea where she was getting off. She could be at the next station, or she might not be.

No. She knew where he was. If he was her, he'd get off at Oxford Circus and double back. So he waited.

He waited forty minutes on the eastbound platform for her. She didn't come back.


	3. Chapter 3

**T** here was a bar in Chalk Farm that Finn hadn't been to in ages. Years. It was called The Queen's Flag, but he had the idea that it had been named something else when he used to frequent it because he didn't remember it at all until they were inside. His memory was jogged by the shape of the bar. He never forgot a bar. He stood for a moment inside, shrugging out of his jacket. Yeah, he'd been here before, only back then, the stage was over the other side of the room. Phasma's band was playing here tonight.

Her loyal friends, Finn and Hux, had come along to show their support.

"I reckon I've been here before," Hux said, pausing with his coat half off and his arms still inside. Then he tugged them free.

Finn nodded. "Yeah. The stage was - "

"Over there, right?"

"Yeah."

"What was this place called back then?"

Finn took a breath, held it for a few seconds and then released it with a shake of his head. "Couldn't tell you. Come on, let's get smashed."

He felt like crap. It had only been a few hours since he'd found, then lost, that ridiculous girl on the tube again. Both Phasma and Hux had figured something was up with him almost at once when he'd gotten back - he had turned down their offer of going out, which was highly out of character for him. Phasma had managed to talk him round into coming out with the old guilt trip ("but it's my gig!") but neither her or Hux had attempted to prise the issue out of him. Finn suspected that would likely change after a few beers had been down. And who knew - maybe he'd feel like discussing it, then.

Not that there was anything to discuss. Nothing had happened. Nothing at all.

By the time Phasma's band began their set it was a quarter to eleven and Hux and Finn were on their third pints. Finn suspected he was going to have one of those miserable nights where it didn't seem to matter what you put away, you never felt drunk enough, not until your body suddenly fell down. He wanted to be upbeat. This was Saturday night, there was good music but it just wasn't happening, and he loathed that it was because of a face he didn't even know.

Hux leaned toward him, eyes on the band. Phasma was playing lead guitar and singing. He almost had to yell over the music.

"Is it about the photography?"

Finn was about to take a drink; he put his half-empty pint glass down instead. "What? No. Why does everyone always assume when I'm mad it's about that?"

"Because it always is."

"What?"

"Because it always is _._ " Hux repeated, louder. "So you're pissed off."

"Bit."

"Couldn't tell if you were pissed off or just being moody and enigmatic."

"What?" Finn squinted at him, leaning closer.

"I said, is it about a girl?" Hux waited for Finn to answer and when his friend just took a drink instead, he grinned. "Who is she?"

"I don't know," Finn answered.

"What?"

"I said I don't know! Can we have this conversation later, this is getting on my fucking tits."

Hux nodded and pulled his phone out of his pocket. A few seconds later, Finn's vibrated in his and he rolled his eyes as he pulled it out and read Hux's message:

" _did u get laid?_ "

Finn glanced up toward the stage, gave Hux a level stare, and put his phone away.

But it didn't end there. No, that would be too easy. Phasma's band took a break after that song ended. They received a good round of applause - they'd found themselves a sound following in the last few months - and Phasma pulled the guitar strap off from around her shoulders. She picked up her own pint sitting beside the amp and picked her way through the crowd to join her friends.

"Good set," Finn congratulated her, and was pleased to find that he had been concentrating enough to remember what had been played, and mean it. "Hot little band, you are."

"Cheers," Phasma replied, chinking her glass to both of theirs. She looked at Hux. "Have you talked about what's pissing Finn off yet?"

"It's a girl," Hux answered over Finn's groan. He pulled a tenner out of his pocket and handed it to Phasma.

Finn looked between them. "Oh no wait, what? You were laying _bets?_ " He frowned at Hux. "And you lost? You didn't think it was a girl?"

Hux shrugged. "I thought you were being weird and artistic."

"Who's the girl?" Phasma pressed. "Come on, I have to finish this, piss, then go back on. Don't have long."

Finn leaned back, defeated. He threw up his hands. "I don't know who she is, all right."

"Is she on the telly?"

Both Phasma and Finn looked at Hux this time. "What?"

"Well... you know... if you don't know who she is, maybe you saw her on the telly."

"And work myself into a state over it?"

Hux hesitated, then shrugged.

Finn tipped himself further back on the chair. His shirt hiked up to show a line of skin from hip to hip as he ran his hands through his hair. "I've seen her on the tube. Twice. And I don't know, there was just this thing. I don't know how to explain it."

"What's her name?" Phasma asked. "Oh no ... you haven't even talked to her, have you."

Finn rolled his eyes at himself and folded his hands on top of his head. "No. I saw her the first time like, months ago and there was this Thing. We were just looking at each other, I don't know. And then I saw her again today and she saw me, and she was happy to see me. She remembered me too, you know, but then the train just kept going."

What he'd said finally sank in. She had remembered him. Months on, and she had definitely remembered his face as well as he had hers. And she had smiled. She had even tried to leave the train... his spirits lifted. All day he'd been so miserable that he hadn't even given that any thought.

"A Thing," Phasma said, breaking Finn's train of thought.

"Yeah. A Thing," Finn answered a little warily. He was aware of how ridiculous it sounded and if either of them laughed now but neither of his friends did. They were respecting the Thing. Or at least, they were respecting how worked up over it he was, and he was really grateful to them both.

They each offered the most unhelpful advice. Keep looking. Ride the tube the times of day you saw her. Blah blah. None of it was anything he hadn't already considered. The sad fact was that he only knew one thing about her. She used the Central Line, both on weekend and weekday. The chances of meeting her once were tiny. The second time had been a complete fluke. A third meeting was just so incredibly unlikely.

Fortunately for Finn, the conversation soon moved on. Phasma came back to the table just before she was about to go on for the second half of her set.

"Oh. There's something I haven't told you two."

"You're a lesbian."

"You already know that and -"

"You joined a lesbian cult."

"Piss off. No. I actually thought you both might say no to this so I deliberately waited until it was sort of too late. Sorry! Anyway, my friend Jakku is heading out of town for a week and she couldn't get anyone to look after her dog. I said you'd take him."

Hux glanced at Finn, who was by now too drunk to really give a shit, and then back to Phasma. "But our flat's No Pets Allowed!"

"It's only for a week! And he's not big. He's, I don't know, tiny."

"Kind of dog is he?" Finn asked.

"Some kind of weird name," Phasma was shaking her head, and scrolling though photos on her phone. "I asked her that when we had lunch today. It was a, uh," she snapped her fingers, trying to think. "A Griffonshire! Here you go."

Phasma turned the phone around, revealing a picture of a tiny, furry dog with a pushed-up nose and a sour look on its face. It was in a girl's embrace but all that was visible of her were her arms and striped shirt.

"Oh hell," Finn rolled his eyes. It was like a groomed rat. "Your responsibility mate. Your girlfriend, your responsibility, keep it out of my room."

"Actually, really cute," Hux snorted.

"Not my girlfriend," Phasma stressed. "Anyway, you've met her, haven't you?"

"Yeah I met her," Hux said, just as Finn shook his head.

Phasma continued. "Well, you will tomorrow morning when she drops Chewie off."

"Chewie?"

"Yeah, the dog's called Chewie."

Finn wasn't sure if that was the most hilarious or ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. "Yeah, can't wait," he said and thought he just might sleep through that.

The next morning Finn woke up with a hangover and hard-on. He groaned and rubbed his hand over his face. His mouth felt like cotton wool. Fumbling for his phone he found it was just before ten, and the pale morning light peaked around the edges of the window blind. He tossed his phone aside and reached for the bottle of water on the bedside table. There were only a few mouthfuls left in the bottom and it tasted stale, but it was wet and better than nothing.

Finn lobbed the empty plastic bottle aside and flopped on to his back. He could hear somebody banging around in the kitchen through the paper-thin walls. Probably Hux. Finn was notorious for being able to sleep longer than anyone he knew, whereas Hux was always up early no matter what time he went to bed. It was unnatural.

He slid his hand beneath the sheet, over his hip and abdomen. His hand brushed against his cock and he sucked in a quick breath. Finn's fingers curled around his hard, smooth cock and drew them slowly back and forth, warming the rest of his body up to desire. For awhile, he tried to think about the girl in the beige dress, in the beanie, on the train. But his emotions where she was concerned were so mixed and frustrated that it worked against him. He stopped thinking about her legs and imagined a nameless girl whose face was in shadow instead. Her body was well proportioned and wet, she moaned for him, she rubbed her thighs together in desperation. Her hands were tied behind her back and she was moaning, perhaps into a pillow or behind a gag. Deprived of face and voice and touch, she could still be that girl; he was fooling his own mind.

His hand pumped himself steadily faster as he pictured her supple thighs parting for him. She was naked and swollen, pink and wet. Finn whimpered softly and twitched on the bed. He pictured sinking his cock inside of her, tight and hot around him, the sounds she would make! Finn came in his hand, spilling his come across his stomach and sheet and as he climaxed, the face of the girl he imagined came into view. Her dark brown hair was loose and bright. He'd found her again.

While he was cleaning himself up and contemplating the order of breakfast and showering, he heard the door knock. He frowned in the direction of the other room and listened as Hux opened the door and greeted his guest. The walls were so thin that he could always hear who was talking, pitch and mood, but usually not words. He stayed where he was, propped up on his elbows. Hux was letting in a woman. They were chatting back and forth cheerfully. He didn't recognise the woman's voice. She spoke very quickly and, he thought, excitedly.

Then he remembered. Phasma's friend - not girlfriend - Jakku. And her dog. That's who it yawned at the door and willed her to leave the dog and go. His hangover was starting to claim him and the last thing he wanted to do was meet somebody new. He presumed his hair was sweaty and his eyes bloodshot or ringed with black bags. Maybe both. He could meet Phasma's mate Jakku when she came back for her bloody dog.

Actually, Finn didn't know why he was so set against the creature - Chewie - in the first place. He liked dogs. He figured it was just him being subconsciously difficult because he was so pissed off about that shit with the girl from the train. Finn rubbed his hair and kicked back the covers. Time to stop being an ass. Meet Phasma's mate Jakku and her dog. He could still hear their muffled voices.

He heard her leave before he pulled his jeans on. Oh. Well so much for that. He worked a N.W.A t-shirt over his head and stepped out into the living room. Hux was standing alone with a ridiculous tan dog in his arms. It had black fur all around its nose and mouth, giving it a preposterous beard. It immediately began sniffing the air as soon as Finn made himself known.

"Morning."

"Hey, you just missed Jakku. But this is Chewie! Say hi, Chewie." Hux picked up one of the dainty little paws and waved it at Finn. There was a big plastic tote bag on the floor with a little pet bed sticking out of it and all of Chewie's other things for its big adventure.

"Hi Chewie," Finn dutifully replied. He poured himself a glass of water and flicked on the kettle. He took a few gulps and came over to meet flatmate number four. "Boy or girl?"

"Um." Hux lifted Chewie in his arms to inspect. "Eunuch."

They both winced. Finn held out his fingers for Chewie to sniff and the dog decided he was all right, and soon he was able to scratch behind Chewie's ears. "How long have we got you for, then?"

"Until Friday."

"I was talking to Chewie."

"Chewie doesn't talk to strangers."

"Well, we'll have to fix that," Finn said decisively. "Dog's all right. You're still doing everything, though."


	4. Chapter 4

**C** hewie made himself comfortable. He knew Hux even better than Finn had suspected - apparently Hux had gone with this Jakku girl to pick out the puppy from the breeder three years ago. They were old friends. That made Finn feel a little strange, actually, and he realised how little time he spent in his own flat. Hux said he saw Jakku all the time. He probably saw more of her than he did of Finn.

On Wednesday night Hux closed his bedroom door tightly and wrapped a black scarf securely around his neck. He was going out. Chewie was hot on his heels, trotting gamely along after his best friend forever.

"Got practice," he announced to Finn, who was sprawled on the sofa watching tv.

Finn tipped his head against the back of the sofa and looked at Hux. He looked really weird from this angle, he thought. "Taking Chewie with you?"

"Really? You know I'm in a band, right, and we practice in Snoke's shed?"

"Lots of room for him to run around in, then."

Hux picked up his guitar case. "It'd scare Chewie half to death."

"Finn, I'm pretty sure the first chord that goes through my amp is going to blow him clean across the channel."

"Said you had to do everything for..." he paused, swirling his beer round in his can while he searched for another fictional dog name, "Spock."

"Er, yeah, and I have?" Hux answered like Finn was stupid. "He's been fed. Took him out to do his business like twenty minutes ago. He'll just go to sleep. He's not a baby, Finn, he'll be fine."

"All right," Finn held up one hand to absolve himself of responsibility. "If Milo does something you're in for it when you get back."

"Otis."

"What?"

"I assume that was a really bad reference to 'Milo and Otis'? Otis was the dog. Milo was the cat."

"Don't you have band practice or something?"

Hux snickered and leaned down to ruffle Chewie's head. "Make lots of trouble for Uncle Finn. Later," he added.

"Get fucked," Finn sang cheerfully after him, raising his hand.

The door closed after Hux. Finn craned his head to watch Chewie trot to it and wait expectantly on his side, head cocked at the handle, waiting for Hux to come back. He was poised with one front leg held midair, dainty and loyal. The sight made Finn snort in amusement, which attracted Chewie's attention.

"C'mere," Finn slapped his thigh a few times. Chewie hesitated, and then trotted around to the front of the sofa. He took a great leap and landed up on the cushions, his front legs resting on Finn's thigh. He was pretty impressed with that jump, actually. The dog had leapt about three times his own height.

"Well, settle down then," Finn encouraged.

Chewie looked over his shoulder, sniffed the air, and picked his way up Finn's leg. Finn winced as he put his paws in places that were just not decent, but he forgave Chewie when he remembered he no longer had balls of his own. The dog ended up squashed between the back of the sofa with half his body sprawled across Finn's stomach. Hux was half right. Chewie did go to sleep, but it was only after watching a good deal of tv while Finn stroked his ears.

* * *

Things were a bit different after that. The following morning when Finn began the dreaded routine at seven, Chewie bounded out of Hux's room and did excited little twists and turns around Finn's legs. Ordinarily, he best liked the mornings when he was able to avoid absolutely everybody. Conversation was not on. Having a little ball of enthusiasm nearly dislocating its pelvis out of the sheer joy of seeing him was pretty nice, actually. And when he came home Thursday night (after two trips on the Central Line and no sign of the girl) Chewie was again beside himself with excitement. His tight little circles made Finn laugh as he hung up his coat.

"All right, all right!" He bent down and picked Chewie up, who took that as a cue to immediately lick his face. Finn winced and held the dog at arms length until he settled somewhat. "Yeah, thanks for that," he mumbled.

He carried Chewie and Chewie's furiously wagging tail into the kitchen. Hux was stir frying an array of colourful vegetables: carrot, mushrooms, bright red bell peppers, baby corn and broccolini. He leaned back from the pan. "Hey."

"How'd your day go?"

"Oh you know. Brilliant." Hux taught music at one of the inner city high schools and did not hate it nearly as much as he pretended to. "Yours?"

"Made a baby cry."

Hux laughed. "Oh yeah? How'd you manage that then?"

"She didn't like the shutter noise. Or any of the hand puppets. Those are going to be some memorable family photos, I can tell you."

"But you got her to stop, didn't you."

"Yeah."

"There you go. Talking yourself down again. I bet the pictures turn out great." He stirred the vegetables, which hissed and sizzled in response. "Jakku is coming to get Chewie tomorrow. Going to be quiet around here without him, isn't it?"

Finn realised he was still holding the stupid dog and put it down. Chewie padded over to Hux and began sniffing around his feet. He had learned Hux was a messy cook and good things could be found on the floor when he was at it; but apparently those bits of carrot weren't good enough.

"Yeah, guess so. Tell her if she has to take off again we can have him."

"Ha. Yeah. Okay, I'll tell her that. She might take us up on that too. I think she's doing a bit of travel in the next few weeks, she mentioned something about that. Do you want some of this?"

"Are you putting meat in it?"

"Yeah, chicken." Hux held up a dish of bite-sized chicken cubes he'd already chopped up and cooked. He stirred the rice.

"Yeah okay then. Thanks. So what's she do?"

"Jakku?"

"Yeah."

"She's a writer actually," Hux answered, distracted by determining whether or not the rice was fully cooked. "So she's been kind of busy."

Finn got them each a can of beer from the fridge and pulled back the ring on his. He took a mouthful. "Is she actually a writer or someone who just calls themselves that?"

"What's the difference?"

Finn shrugged. "I dunno. If you get paid for it, I guess."

"Well, she gets paid for it."

"Good for her."

"Yeah, good for her. I think this is done." Hux tipped the chicken back into the pan with the vegetables, with a few splashes of soy, oyster and fish sauces. He took it off the heat and drained the rice, fluffing it with a fork in the colander. "You two'd probably get on all right actually. Are you sure you haven't met?"

"I really don't think so."

"Can you get bowls? Maybe you will tomorrow then."

Later that night, after the stirfry was demolished and the scant leftovers covered in plastic wrap in the fridge, Finn got out his digital SLR. The lighting was terrible, but he made the best of it as he screwed the lens carefully on. He glanced up through his hair at the dog, sitting where he'd left him on the sofa. His eyebrows twitched in a way that made him look extremely doubtful every time he moved his eyes.

He hadn't taken a lot of pictures of animals before. When he'd been studying photography he'd been mildly judgmental of people who submitted photographs of cute cats and dogs for their assignments. It was just so cliche. But he was lacking in inspiration and was willing to try his hand photographing just about anything, and he liked Chewie, so he spent the next couple of hours shooting the fucking dog.

Finn started with just some basic portrait shots which gradually became more creative as he rolled balls to try action pictures, or held food out of reach to pique Chewie's interest. He tried a few words, but Chewie didn't seem to know any good tricks. He could sit and stay, and he understood 'out' and 'off' when it suited him, but that was about the extent of it. What sort of girl was this Jakku if she couldn't even teach him something cool? Like talking or even rolling over?

Finn didn't meet Hux's Jakku when she picked up Chewie the next day. She came sometime when he was on the tube. When Finn got to the apartment Chewie and all his things were gone. Hux said Jakku had only just left, and he must have passed her on the street.

* * *

The third time he saw the girl with the dark brown hair was in the first few days of January.

It was an unassuming, routine Tuesday. He waited with countless other frustrated commuters on the westbound Central Line platform at Tottenham Court Road. There were delays and the announcements repeatedly encouraged commuters to take alternate routes if they could. Since Lancaster Gate was serviced only by the Central Line, he didn't see how he had a choice but to wait, since he was unfamiliar with the bus routes. He texted Poe and decided against his better judgment to wait it out.

The first train to squeeze through the tube was so crowded that Finn didn't have a hope of getting on it. Nor the inclination. He let the more desperate commuters shoulder their way inside and then press up against the doors like squashed beetles. The next train, three minutes later, was likewise stuffed with people but not as punishingly crowded as the last. And he couldn't stand here forever. Finn tried to make himself as small as possible and carved himself out a little territory up the extreme back of the carriage. As the doors closed with the eternal warning to mind the gap, he folded his arms and braced himself against the forward momentum.

He looked up. The girl with the dark brown hair was four meters away.

She stood with a black gloved hand holding the pole, surrounded by people all the same height she was. Her hair was tied into an intricate set of loop like braids, much differant than he remembered it; she wore a black ruffled trench coat and had a bright orange handbag looped over her arm. Best of all, she was looking right at him.

 _Hi_ , she mouthed. She bit her lip, and smiled.

Oh shit. This was actually happening. She was right there, just a few meters away, and if it were not for this fucking delay they might not have met; or if not for it, they might have been able to come together and talk properly. He pulled the earbuds free, Radiohead now tinny around his neck. He grinned like an idiot.

 _Hi_ , Finn mouthed back. They were having a conversation, it had only been five months since he'd first seen her and now they were having a conversation. Of sorts. There were too many people pressed into the carriage to even attempt getting closer for a real conversation. How are you?

She held up her hand and waved it from side to side, the so-so gesture. Subtly, she indicated the back of the man to her right with her head and eyes. Then she pinched her nose with her fingers. They laughed quietly across the train. She looked innocently away when the man glanced her way.

After a few moments she looked at Finn. He had his legs spread and was half sitting, half leaning against the carriage wall. It left his hands free to slowly illustrate what he was mouthing, hoping she'd get it. I, he pointed to himself, have been thinking, he twirled his fingers on either side of his head, then pointed at her. About you.

Finn was rewarded with a big smile. He glimpsed white teeth. _Why?_ She mouthed back.

He shrugged and they both laughed and this time. He heard her, just for a moment. Finn's grin grew wider.

The girl took a leaf from his book and mimed her silent words. She pointed at herself and then put her hand over her eyes like a visor, turning her head from side to side. I looked for you. She pointed at him.

Finn pointed at the ground. _I was waiting_.

 _What?_ She shrugged, shaking her head a bit.

Finn shook his head too. This was harder than he thought. The train pulled into Oxford Circus. People got on, people got off, but neither Finn nor the girl were able to get any closer together. By force of will alone they were able to hold their ground. He couldn't see as much of her now, and braced himself again as the train picked up speed.

 _Busy_ , he mouthed.

She nodded. _Yeah_.

They just grinned at one another, stupidly. It was a good thing that polite rule about avoiding eye contact on the tube existed, so there was no audience to their little pantomime. Finn wished he could think of something to say, something easily communicable over sign language and mouthing words, because knew anything too complicated would be unintelligible.

He pointed at himself and then mimed taking a photograph, his thumb and forefingers pretending to hold a camera and clicking the shutter. The girl frowned and pointed at herself, confused. He shook his head and gestured several times at himself until he saw an 'oh' of realisation form on her lips, her features relaxing from their confusion. She got it. Her lips twitched to one side and her eyes combed the ceiling, thinking, and then in a flash of inspiration she met his gaze again. The girl held out one hand like a paddle and the other as if she grasped a pen, drawing imaginary lines across it.

Finn grinned and pointed at her. _Writer?_

She beamed back, pleased he'd gotten it, and then pressed the sides of her hands together, palms up. She opened and closed them like a book, and pointed at herself.

 _Books?_

She nodded.

 _Any good?_

The girl shrugged and looked up, laughing. She made the so-so gesture with her hand again. Then she pointed at him. _What about you?_

Finn screwed up his face and shook his head.

 _Why not?_

He tapped the side of his head and shrugged. The train chose that moment to pull into Bond Street. People disembarked and shouldered their way through those who were getting on. This time, the people around her moved, and she almost had the chance to come closer. But if she did she'd lose her hold on the pole. She seemed to rethink the move, and stepped back to hold it again. She shook her head ruefully at him as the train surged forward.

They both seemed to have run out of things to say, which was ridiculous, since they had not spoken a word. She seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion Finn had: too much was lost in translation if they tried anything too complicated. Then, she did the most unexpected thing. He was sure his laugh would travel over the train to her ears.

The girl raised her hand in a fist and shook it in the air three times. On the third time it came down, she split her fingers like a sideways peace sign. She raised her eyebrows at him. She was actually challenging him to a game of rock, paper, scissors.

Finn spread his hands wide. _Okay_.

Keeping their eyes on one another, they timed their fists almost exactly. On the third go, she kept her hand in a fist and his flattened. Paper covers rock. She made an offended face and he stuck out his tongue at her. They went again. This time, they went for an identical play, and he beat her again. Her expression became even more outraged than the last time, but she was laughing.

They went again. She made scissors and he made rock. He was pretty sure which expletive she mouthed at him, and it wasn't very nice. He threw his head back in silent laughter. One more?

She gave a firm nod. Three shakes and she came out with scissors, while Finn did paper again.

"Yeah!" She cried out loud, breaking the silence.

It sounded so loud in the carriage, and everyone who could turned to look at her. Finn stuffed the side of his fist into his mouth and watched her blushing, trying to make her body look as small as possible behind the pole. She was saved by the train's arrival into Marble Arch. He pushed away from the end of the carriage and tried to get closer to her, but he only managed to get as close as the pole by the door. On an ordinary morning, they would be side by side now. Eye to eye, maybe, she looked quite tall. This was no ordinary morning though, and the train was labouring through the fallout of the earlier delay. It took off again.

The announcement reminded them all that the next station was Lancaster Gate. Finn pointed up, still trying not to laugh. That's me.

Blush fading, she pointed at herself, then him, then the doors, and then made walking motions with her fingers. Thrilled, he nodded, and they spent the last leg of the journey trying not to grin like idiots and stare at each other too much.

It was not possible after five months. He soaked up every detail about her, from the shape of her eyes to the way she parted her hair. He wished he could see more. They didn't need to try talking now. They could talk properly, when they got off the train at Lancaster Gate. He was already very late for work. Poe could cope a little while longer.

But they had miscalculated the sheer volume of people desperate to get around during rush hour after a delay. They were forced to exit at Lancaster Gate through separate doors. Finn could not immediately cross to her door because of the bodies forming a gauntlet on either side of the opening. When he cleared it he was caught up in the flow of people heading out and it was frighteningly impossible to fight against it. Finn had to go with the stream of bodies, and stopped resisting. It carried him into the lift. She was not in it. The doors closed without her in it. He swiped his Oyster on street level and waited for her outside. He waited ten minutes before realising there was another exit, and if she had taken that...

He ran for it. He could not take this for granted. Three times was already too much to hope for! This was probably his last chance.

The girl wasn't at the other exit. He swapped between the two with growing panic and disappointment for the next fifteen minutes. His phone started ringing. It was Poe. It was time to stop waiting, and go to work.


	5. Chapter 5

**O** n his way to work, Finn made use of just about every single curse he knew. Then he made a few up for good measure. The whole thing was fucked up and ridiculous. For one thing, who met somebody on a train the way he kept meeting this girl? Why was he so emotionally connected to it that he found himself thinking about her every time he travelled on the ine? They were questions he could not answer no matter how honestly or brutally he tried. Sure, fine, okay. He'd always been a romantic at heart, but he didn't go losing his head over nameless, pretty faces at the drop of a hat. He had been in love exactly twice in his life and one of those times didn't even count, because she was Aisha Abid and they had been six.

He didn't know this girl on the train! It was the height of frustration that he was so distracted by her and hadn't even looked twice at another girl in five months. He hadn't even shagged in five months!

That revelation drew him up in the middle of the footpath and he stared, astonished, at the air in front of him. "Bloody hell..."

No. That was it. Enough of this nonsense, he was going to get laid, then he was going to find a girlfriend and put the girl on the train behind him. He'd built her up into some idealised, stupid fantasy woman in his head. There was no way she could be anything like what he'd expected. Except that she obviously had a fantastic sense of humour and had wanted to meet him, and it probably wasn't her fault they'd gotten separated and she was gorgeous and...

He had a rant on the tip of his tongue when he flung open the studio door. He was already half out of his jacket. He hadn't said anything to Poe about what had been going on because he, somewhat unfairly, assumed he'd laugh at him. But he was ready to talk about it now in as many words as he could stuff into one breath.

The instant he was over the threshold he loudly announced, "My dream girl lives on a train and I'm -"

Reception was crowded with a family of six. They were all looking at him. Oh shit. Yeah. The eight-thirty appointment. Due to the train delays, it was almost nine-thirty now. Poe gave him a significant look over the top of the hutch.

"I'm sorry," he said to them, "delays on the Central Line."

"It's fine, we just finished their shoot," Poe said briskly. He pointed his pen at the studio beyond. "The nine o'clock's waiting in there."

So much for a coffee and a good, old-fashioned rant about how he was going to turn his life around, then. Finn finished getting out of his coat and hung it up. He unslung his messenger bag and tucked it beneath the desk, then took a few seconds to fix his clothes and roll down the sleeves of his shirt. Poe insisted on dressing up every day; he said it promoted a good image, and he was right. Just part of routine now, the dress pants and shirt. At least he did not demand a tie.

"Sorry to keep you waiting. I suppose Poe told you - tube delays," Finn cheerfully explained as he entered the studio, closing the door behind himself. He didn't feel like doing this, but he was a professional. He went immediately to the tripod and adjusted its height from the level Poe had set it to. He looked up and his smile froze on his face.

There she was. Just standing there against the backdrop. Staring at him.

She was the nine o'clock appointment! Finn's mouth and mind stopped working and so did his heart for just one beat. It made up for it by starting to pound very fast.

He thought she looked different off the train. It was the only context he knew her in and so it took his mind a few moments to catch up. Her coat was off. She wore a short-sleeved, dark-green dress with a cinched waist and flared skirt. A dress unsuitable for January - everyone kept saying it as going to snow this week - but she hadn't dressed for the weather. She had dressed to be photographed.

And how did he talk to her? She looked as shocked as he felt and probably looked. They had gone from grinning at each other like idiots across the train to staring at one another like idiots instead. It was all so unlikely, so utterly extraordinary, that neither seemed to know what to do about it.

Eventually, Finn managed to pull himself together. He smiled and stepped forward. He held out his hand. "Well. Hello, at last. I'm Finn."

His stab at normalcy gave her the strength to give it a go too. She shook his hand. Her grip was firm, her hand small and soft. "Hi. Are you stalking me?"

"Hey, you walked into my studio."

"So you're a very clever stalker." She smiled. "Rey."

"So that's your name."

"And that's yours."

"Yes, it is."

"We're still shaking hands."

"Oh right." They let go and stepped back. It was the closest they'd ever been.

Now what? They had gone back to looking at one another. The shock of their fourth and most unexpected meeting was not wearing off very fast. Finn fell back on the reason they were here for the sake of doing something - at least, something that did not involve grabbing and kissing her very hard.

"You ah, came for portraits?" He gestured to the camera.

"Right, yeah," Rey replied. She smoothed her dress over her hips in a move so casually sensual that he almost told her she wasn't allowed to do that again. "I have to get some proper head shots done."

"Okay. Well... we'll do a few with you standing first, and then I'll get you to sit... and we'll go from there. How's that?"

"Fine."

Finn moved behind the camera and felt more confident at once. He softly released a breath he didn't know he was holding and concentrated on adjusting the tripod and camera settings. He stood with his legs apart and bent his head, looking down the lens at her. She was really fucking there. The odds, what were the fucking odds?!

He waved his hand in the air, still looking at her through the lens. The truth in the lens. And the truth said she was so bloody gorgeous that he could hardly think straight. "Just stand back a bit. And to your left. Your other left. Bit more... good, stay there. Just going to take a few test shots."

Rey rubbed her lips together. "Okay." She waited until he had taken a few photographs. "Been doing this long? The pictures?" She copied his mime with the camera, the one he'd done for her on the tube.

Finn took a few more shots, capturing her with the imaginary camera. "Only five years."

"Oh, right."

"Then four years of study before that."

"Did you do that in London?"

"Yeah."

Rey shifted her feet and gently turned her head as she combed her hair. He could see the lean curve of her neck and fixated on it for a few moments. Had she done that on purpose? Finn cleared his throat and tapped the side of the lens.

"Look straight down here. Turn your body just a little... yeah, that way. Hold there." He took a few more shots. He eased in on the zoom. She was looking right at him, through the lens, and he began to see the truth.

"Okay. Turn your body a little more, but keep your head steady. That's good." A few more clicks. "Do you want to smile in any of these?"

"No," Rey replied, but she was smiling when she said that, and he got a few shots. "Hey!"

Finn's hands slowly left the camera and he offered her an open-palmed surrender. He looked up from the camera and grinned. "Sorry." Finn resumed the position and took another picture. "You should smile. You've a good smile."

"These are supposed to be a bit more serious than that. I don't even have a camera. Just one on my phone."

"Well, everybody's a photographer, now," Finn said with a touch of regret.

"You're only a photographer if you get paid for it," she replied. It was almost exactly what he had said to Hux about writers. He glanced up at Rey again, surprising her. "What? Sorry."

"No, it's nothing it's just... Nothing." He looked back down the lens, then immediately straightened up. He left the camera and tripod and crossed to the side of the room. His hands closed over the low back of a high stool, which he carried over to plunk beside her. "Sit up on that. Sort of... sideways, and look toward me."

He turned his back and returned to the tripod while she got up on to the stool. He pushed his fingers through his hair, raking it back three times in quick succession, then wheeled back to the camera. He adjusted the height and focus and took a few more photos. Finn pulled back and rubbed his jaw, studying her thoughtfully.

"I'm so ugly you can't get a good picture, right?"

Finn gave a quick laugh. He sobered quickly. "Not that ugly..."

"Hey!"

He laughed longer this time, then went back to studying her with that same deep thought in his eyes. Finally, he shook his head. He knew what was wrong.

"This isn't you. The - the standing, the chair. I'm photographing someone who looks like you, but she's not you."

"Well... that's okay, it doesn't have to be -"

"No, it's really not okay," he argued. He was slipping into a frame of mind he had not been in for the most part of five years. He recognised it at once. The urgency for perfection, the stubborn resistance to accept nothing less. Enthusiasm! He was inspired. Finn walked around to the front of the camera and crossed his arms, head slightly tipped forward, eyes raised and settled on her. Intently.

Ret didn't know what was going on, or how important this moment was. She glanced from side to side and tried a joke to soften the tension. "Is this the part where you ask me to unzip my dress?"

"No no, thinking," he said swiftly, too distracted to even respond to the flirt. A few seconds later, he waved his hand again. "Hop off the stool."

When she had both feet on the ground he lifted the stool and carried it off to one side. He grabbed the arm of a big, glamorous looking sofa with a carved, polished frame. The arms were curved and detailed, the cushions patterned deep blue and gold. Poe had once told him it was a Georgian reproduction. He positioned it, leaving it up to Rey to guess his moves and duck out of the way. And then he headed back to the tripod.

"Just sit on that however you feel comfortable."

Rey glanced doubtfully at the sofa and then back at Finn. Self-consciously, she sat down in the centre, her hands on her thighs.

"You don't look comfortable."

"I don't usually get comfortable with someone pointing a camera at me."

"Take your time."

Rey looked at the sofa as though seeking inspiration, too. Then she slipped off her shoes and pulled her stockinged feet up on to the cushions. She scooted closer to one of the arms and bent her knees, twisting her body slightly to rest her elbow against the sofa arm. She made a fist with her hand and propped up her head with it.

He photographed her. Rey wasn't sitting still. She moved about, wiggling to find a good position, responding to any suggestion he made. She had fun with it (clearly forgetting what she had said earlier about smiling in the photographs) and got steadily more creative. Amongst the sillier positions he found ones that were natural, that were her.

After awhile he stood back from the tripod and regarded her, thoughtfully. Without even looking at the camera he unclipped it from the tripod. Finn approached Rey, the camera nursed in his hands.

He squatted down before her and raised the camera, taking a few photos. Something was changing and if he could feel it, so could she. He could see that through the lens.

"No, stay like that," he murmured behind the camera. He almost had the perfect shot. Rey was sitting with her arm over the end of the sofa, holding it, her cheek against the cushion. Without thinking, he reached forward and brushed a rogue hair behind her ear. His fingertips brushed her cheek. Then he was back behind the lens and he took two photos. One of them would be perfect.

Finn slowly lowered the camera and set it down. "Good," he said, very softly.

He had the pictures they needed. This was supposed to be the part where, having seen the truth in the lens, he could no longer converse with the subject. This was where he twiddled with settings and asked them to see Poe on the way out. But that wasn't happening, because he'd never unhooked camera from tripod to shoot anyone this close in the studio before. Ret slowly lifted her head from the cushion and he knew, he could feel it, see it in her eyes. They both leaned in to one another. Lips touched so softly, exploratively. Finn's heart did a funny little twist and flutter behind his ribs. He felt her lips parting and the heat of her mouth, and he opened his for her. Her tongue gently probed his lower lip, rolling into his mouth, coaxing his out to meet hers. It was all Finn could do not to moan aloud as his tongue touched hers, sliding against it as he turned his head to deepen the kiss. She accepted it readily with a soft little sigh that sent an urgent, hungry pulse through his entire body.

He lost track of time. Finn was on his knees beside Poe's posh, Georgian replica sofa, kissing his elusive train girl. His long fingers were framing her face, thumbs against her jaw and fingers sunk into her hair. He felt her reaching for him and gladly shifted slightly closer to help her find him. Her slender had cupped around his neck, brushing the fine hairs and he actually felt a shiver pass through him. It was madness.

They broke only when desperate for oxygen. Even then there were quick kisses before their foreheads rested together while they tried to catch their breath.

Finn wanted to say something, anything, but all the words that came to mind were so pathetically cliche. Further, he was afraid of breaking the spell that had conjured itself between them, much as he had been afraid of speaking the first time he had seen her in that beige dress. Holding her face between his hands he pulled slightly back and just looked at her - she was dazed and breathing unevenly, lips swollen from his kisses. They kissed again, picking up immediately from where they had left off, the urgency greater than before. His hands slid down her back and pulled her close. Her chest was hard against his, arms winding around his neck. The kiss was deep, passionate, curious as they tasted and explored one another. There was a low, scooped back to her dress. One arm had her by the waist, but the other hand was free to wander that expanse of smooth, warm skin. When she moaned he thought he would break for wanting her.

"You," she murmured, breaking the kiss to look at him, breathless and flushed, "you."

"And you," Finn started the kiss again.

He was already hard inside his trousers. His erection pushed insistently against the fabric, creating a sizable bulge. He had never wanted anyone quite like this. Finn's hand left her back and slowly felt down her side. Down, then up, brushing the side of her breast both times. He heard her breath catch. A five month dry spell, subconsciously because of her, and he was desperate for it now. His hand moved up her ribs and felt the shape of her breast, taking its weight in his palm, swiping his thumb over it in a way that made her gasp "oh!" against his lips. He could feel her hardened nipple through the thin material. Rey's arms tightened around him, one of her hands clenching the back of his head and -

A soft knock on the door. "Next appointment," Poe's muffled voice gently reminded him.

Oh hell, fuck and shit, they were running so far behind, and how long had he been in here with the nine o'clock? With Rey? Finn had automatically glanced to the door and now looked back at Rey, who was panting. That dazed, lustful look was still in her eyes but it had been joined with something else now. Reality.

And guilt.

His hand left her breast. He stroked back her hair and framed her face with his hands once more. "I want to see you again," he whispered because he did not have enough breath in his lungs for anything louder.

"I can't," Rey murmured back.

He felt a touch of cold panic clench his heart. "Why?"

She shook her head.

"...there's someone else."

Rey didn't have to nod. The look on her face said it all. It was helpless, trapped. Sorry.

Fiercely, he said, "I don't care."

"I care," she gently reached up and took his wrists, passing his hands back to him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have... it just happened, I got carried away. I didn't mean to -"

"Yes, you did," Finn answered, trying to find a way to tell her that this was all so fucking unlikely that it had to mean something, it was meant to have happened.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," she corrected.

"You haven't hurt me yet," he said, watching as she scooted down the other end of the sofa. He rose as she did.

Ret was shaking her head and putting her shoes back on. "Good. I'm glad. I didn't know you worked here. And the train, and... I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry for." She was seconds from leaving, he could sense it. "Rey, something's going on here, and you know it too. Four times, four random encounters..."

"Are you talking about fate?" Rey asked, with an edge of disdain.

Finn crossed his arms. He didn't like that tone of hers. "Maybe."

"There is no such thing."

"Then how would you explain it?"

"Accident," she shrugged.

"Four times."

"I don't know!" She sounded a trifle desperate, and defensive. Rey picked up her bag. "I just... I don't know. But I'm sorry. I shouldn't have kissed you."

"I want to see you again," Finn insisted, even though that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach said the battle was already lost.

She shook her head. "We can't." She backed up toward the door. "Thanks. For the pictures. It was great."

He could think of only one thing that would keep her here. "Why are you so sad?"

That stopped her in her tracks. "What?" When he didn't answer, she took a step forward, clearly summoning her courage. "What did you say?"

Finn was completely, one hundred percent of what he saw in the camera lens. He had never once been wrong before. "I saw you. In the camera. You are... so sad, but you're a good actress."

Ret stared at him. She looked so conflicted, trying to choose how to respond to that, and it spoke in greater volume about her emotions than she could possibly imagine. In the end, she just took a deep breath and found a smile.

"Thank you for the photos."

Finn made no attempt to stop her leaving. He stood by the big, stupid Georgian sofa. They'd have her details in the book Poe kept of clients. He could find her again next time, and he didn't have to depend on chance to do it. He was still standing there when Poe sent the new couple in.

The next photos he took were some of the best he'd ever taken. And so were the following portraits, and the ones after. When the pictures were all developed Poe was quietly impressed, and singled out a few.

"This is the best work you've done in five years," he said. He went back to the first folio of prints. Rey's folio. He flicked through it with nimble fingers until he found the last shot he had taken of her, her cheek against the sofa, her hair neatly combed.

"Don't include this one in her set," he told him. Poe leaned down to examine it. "It's your best... but it's not what she asked for."


	6. Chapter 6

**S** aturday was a bitterly cold January day. The sky held the permanent threat of snow over London's head. The city was waiting for the snow to come, gazing up at a sky of thickened cream stretching out above them as far as the eye could see. It snowed in Europe and they coped in Paris, Brussels and Berlin. It snowed in the United Kingdom and it was everyone to panic stations.

Finn and Phasma went out either way. The Borough Market in South London, across the River Thames, was as crowded as ever. It was stuffed with vegetable stalls and gourmet stands, bodies of all shapes and sizes weaving amongst them. Finn liked the Borough Market. Everything smelled so good. He'd gotten his pocket picked down here a few years ago but the Market's appeal was such that he hadn't been turned off it. He liked to refer to that day as the time he spent £90 at the Market and just couldn't remember what on.

He was warmly dressed to keep out the worst of the chill. A beanie was jammed over his head and he wore a navy Greatcoat with the collar turned up, scarf, and thermals beneath his jeans. Phasma was similarly dressed beside him and Finn was pretty sure that the scarf she had on really belonged to him.

Phasma's girlfriend was coming around for dinner, hence the journey to the market. Finn had a gourmet sausage wrapped in some kind of fragrant herb bread. It was so hot that his hard pallet was burned. Everything he swallowed burned all the way down into the pit of his stomach, but it was a great contrast to the cold. He ate it while watching Phasma picking up jars of olives that all looked identical to Finn.

"She's vegetarian," Phasma complained, putting the olives down. "I don't even like olives. What do you cook for vegetarians?"

"Nothing," Finn answered. They moved to the next stall of baked Portuguese pastries. "They eat everything raw out of the ground. True story. What's her name again?"

"Revan."

"American?"

Phasma gave him a look. "No, French."

"Really?"

"Do you honestly think I would date a Frenchwoman?"

Finn spoke around a hot mouthful, "Yes."

"Yeah, well, if that ever happens you come to me and remind me of this conversation, and I'll give you £20."

"You're on."

* * *

They moved along. Phasma bought bunches of herbs; basil, oregano, coriander and continental parsley. She was a pretty fair cook in Finn's opinion. Phasma still hadn't made up her mind what shr even intended to cook. The market was all inspiration. Finn's culinary mind did not work that way. In fact, it didn't really work at all.

"I called her when the prints were ready," Finn announced while Phasma was waiting for her change. He had filled her in on everything that had transgressed in the studio two days earlier. Phasma said he was bonkers. In the next breath she'd told him to call Rey as soon as the prints were ready for her to look over and choose which ones she wanted. Finn took that to mean he had Phasma's support.

Phasma tucked her wallet into his inside coat pocket. "What happened?"

"Not her number. It was her publicist."

"What?!" Phasma paused, thinking about that. "Well you said she said she was a writer. Guess she's doing all right for herself then."

"Yeah. Then her bloody publicist came and got the prints yesterday morning. You should've seen this prick. He stood at the desk and stabbed his stupid finger at them without even looking - I'm serious, this is some of my best work - and went, this one, this one, this one. So she's gone again. That's it. I don't even know how to find her now."

Phasma stopped in the middle of the market and grabbed Finn's coat. "Are you absolutely daftt?"

"...what?"

"I am serious. Is there - actually - something wrong with your brain? And I don't mean this in an ableist manner."

Flabbergasted, Finn could only gaze at her. "What are you talking about?"

Phasma was looking at him as though seriously disturbed by a lapse in common sense. "Finn, you know her name. You know she's a writer who has a publicist - a publicist. Doesn't that mean she is potentially a little bit famous?"

Finn stared at her. "I could Google her."

Phasma gave him a companionable little shove and released his coat. She seemed relieved that he had gotten it. "You could Google her."

Finn had gotten out his phone and was already trying to Google her with cold fingers. Phasma kept talking to him, but Finn was beyond paying any attention. He was staring at his phone with growing frustration, waiting for pages to load.

"Maybe I should ask Jakku about it. She's a writer. She might know somebody who knows somebody."

"Yeah, do that," Finn muttered distractedly. "Look, I'm getting fuck all reception here. It's the bridge. I'm going to head up to the road."

"Finn - "

"I don't wanna hold you up, so you just -"

"Finn." Phasma finally got his attention. Finn lowered his phone and frowned impatiently at her. Phasma gave his head a light shake. "What is going on with you?"

Finn glanced from side to side. "I'm just going up to the road to get reception..."

"No - you, and this ... train girl." They were getting in the way of other shoppers, so Phasma dragged him off to one side between a stall selling roasted chestnuts and smoked fish. "You're obsessed. What is the hurry? Why do you have to go right now and Google her? This whole thing is making you weird."

"I'm not weird," Finn argued stiffly, though he was acutely aware of the truth in Phasma's words. Brutal honesty was her motto.

"I just ... like her."

"You don't know her," Phasma said quietly. "You know, I haven't even seen you bring a girl home since you started talking about her. I haven't heard you mention anybody else. Look, I ..." Phasma paused, sighed, clearly trying to find the right words without alienating her friend. "You told me she said there was someone else. What are you doing, Finn?"

"I don't know!" Finn snapped. Then he hesitated and took a deep breath. He didn't want to fall out with Phasma over this and he knew, were their places switched, her advice would be similar. Quieter, he added, "I don't know. From that first time I saw her... I didn't even believe this sort of thing happened. And she feels the same," Finn added, accusingly. "I've seen it."

Gently, Phasma said, "But she left, Finn. She hasn't come back to the studio, and she knows where to find you now. Look. We're mates and if she's who you want ... then I want you to go for it, but I want you to go for it in your right mind, okay?"

Phasma was, completely, one hundred percent right. Finn sighed in aggravation and rested his hands on top of his beanie. See reason. Calm down. He hadn't even thought of Rey having someone else as even being a problem. Foremost in his mind was that everything would work out if he could just see her again. She could not have possibly kissed anyone the way she'd kissed him. He knew he hadn't kissed anyone else that way. Whoever this other person was, he wasn't a threat. He was a non-entity.

Finally, he nodded and lowered his hands. He put his phone away. He could Google her later. "You're right."

Phasma released a breath. She looked relieved as she squeezed Finn's shoulder. "All right. I'm going to ask Revan to bring a friend tonight, okay. You're coming to dinner."

"What?" Finn looked up in alarm as Phasma steered him back into traffic. He began to browse again.

"You. You're having dinner with me and Revan and a friend of hers, if she can find someone desperate enough to come last minute."

"...I have plans."

"Oh what, you and Hux at the pub?"

"...maybe."

"His broken heart will mend."

Finn did not want this. It was a set-up, and he couldn't believe he was becoming that guy - the one pitying friends tried to set up. Even so, he could see what Phasma was trying to do.

"If we're going to do this tell her to bring a friend who'll put out," Finn muttered.

* * *

Finn had taken Phasma's advice to heart. He didn't even try looking Rey up once they were out of the market, both laden with canvas shopping bags filled with expensive food he hoped Revan would appreciate for the price Phasma had paid. They got on to the underground at London Bridge, sitting with their bags between their feet. No changes were necessary, they could ride the Northern Line all the way back to Tufnell Park. Phasma messaged Revan at Old Street, and she had an answer from her by the time they were in the Tufnell Park lift.

"It's Jessika," Phasma told him. "You've met."

"Have we?" Finn looked at her, puzzled, trying to put a face to the name. "Is she Japanese?"

"No. She was born here, but her mother is Singaporean." Phasma replied. "She's a brunette, shaped like a warrior."

Finn opened his mouth, closed it, then made the connection. "I said someone who'd put out!"

"Oh jeez Finn, stop sounding so straight."

"She's not my type."

"She's nice, okay."

They remained quiet until the lift doors opened. Phasma balanced her bags and swiped her Oyster, working herself sideways through the gate. "Are you going to complain all night?"

"I might, yeah."

"Well that's just brilliant," Phasma muttered, and Finn felt a flush of satisfaction that he was making her regret her stupid match-making.

Finn helped Phasma unpack when they were inside the flat, coats and hats and scarves off, slowly defrosting. He left Phasma in the kitchen, running her fingers over ingredients and thinking, and went into his bedroom. He pulled out his phone and looked at it.

He could Google her without being judged now. Phasma's words ran through his head. He was right. Rey knew where he was. She hadn't come back, hadn't called, she was seeing someone else. There was another piece of the mystery. Someone who was as sad as Rey couldn't be in such a happy relationship. She had been utterly reticent when he'd asked about it. For all he knew...

"Oh fuck," he breathed. He hurried to the other side of the room. He had a desk wedged beneath the window, cluttered with paper and junk. He tripped on a pair of jeans discarded on the floor, stumbled, and braced his fall on the edge of the desk. He reached out and tugged the cord, pulling the blind up enough to allow a little light to see by.

Finn had brought the best photos he'd taken of Rey home. He was proud of them. The yellow envelope hadn't been opened since he'd slipped them in there yesterday afternoon and he pulled out a stack of matte prints. He flipped slowly through them, looking for a shot that was going to show him what he already knew he'd find.

There it was. The ring on her finger. He'd seen enough of them photographing weddings for it to be unmistakable. She was engaged. Finn flipped through a couple more until there was a second photograph confirming it. He swore and stuffed the pictures back into the envelope.

Finn stepped away from the desk. He turned to the window and looked out at the view he rarely glimpsed. It wasn't much - just the rear of the building, a narrow lane way below and other people's windows facing his. And then, perhaps he was out of his mind, because Finn laughed. He was relieved.

This was her complication. It wasn't Finn's. She felt the same way about him as he did about her, he was sure of it. She hadn't lied to him. She had apologised when she thought she was leading him on. And she was sad. She wasn't happy with her fiancée.

He wheeled around and threw himself on to the bed. He moved up into a comfortable position against the bed head, stretching out his legs, and reaching above his head to hold on to the wood. Finn's phone was in his hand and sure enough - she had a Wikipedia page.

 _Rey Skywalker (born 10 April 1992) is an English novelist. She is best known for The Twin Galaxies trilogy; 'A Broken Empire', 'Takodana's Fall' and the forthcoming 'The Silence of Stars'..._

Finn looked up. The first title sounded similar. He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking where he had seen it before.

Poe - he had been reading that!

"Bloody wanker," he murmured, and went back to the article.

There wasn't a lot to it. It listed some awards she had been nominated for and had not won, and there was a brief summary about her early life that said she had been born in Westminster and was an only child. There was nothing about her engagement. When he finished, he read it again. He put her name into Google images. There were an assortment from signings and publicity shots. He went back into web page search and found her official site, which had no more personal information than her Wiki had. He read all of it all the same, including the chapter excerpt from the new book, even though he hadn't read the other two and had no clue as to what was going on.

There was some very interesting information at the bottom of the article though. 'The Silence of Stars' was being released next week.

She was signing copies at Waterstones, Piccadilly Circus.


	7. Chapter 7

**I** n the end, he realised he'd never be satisfied unless he gave in.

He just had to know. He picked up his pace.

He was stopped once before he could leave the square by a pair of American tourists wanting a picture together. Finn obliged and took a couple of smiley, touristy shots of them with a cheap digital camera.

He walked up Cockspur and pushed in his earbuds. Mumford & Sons. His mind focused on the music booming into his ears as he turned up Haymarket, slipping between cars parked at the traffic lights. The streets were thick with people. This part of London, crowded with its shops, was always busy. He preferred to avoid the entire area during January if he could manage it, but this was an exception. He wanted to walk rather than take the tube just one stop north. He needed the fresh air.

Finn went into Piccadilly Circus' Waterstones. It wasn't the day for the signing, that was next Saturday: but he wanted the first two books of her series. He couldn't even remember what they were called, but he found them on display toward the front of the store with a poster of Rey to advertise the event. The last volume in the trilogy, it said, was available Saturday.

He bought the first two books. Finn wouldn't have minded going into the M&Ms store but the building was splitting at the seams with customers, so he avoided it and took the tube home.

* * *

Finn didn't open the paper bag until he was home. He looked around his mess of a bedroom in the cold, hard light of day and grimaced, tossing the two books on the desk. Finn made a half-hearted effort to clean up. He changed the sheets and picked up the dirty clothes, gathered up empty food packages and emptied the bin. It could do with a good hoovering and dusting but that was going too far. He took a can of beer from the fridge and settled on the bed.

He held the two paperbacks side by side. 'A Broken Empire' and 'Takodana's Fall.' They each had a dark matte cover speckled with small silver dots and a line drawing in the back cover. There was a different line drawing behind each book. The first book had the drawing of a star shaped figure broken into pieces, and the silhouette of two hooded persons. One opposed against the other. The drawing on the second book was one of a young woman with loose hair, casting a shadow where two versions of herself fight one another. White thick letters titled each book (with 'Part One of the Oncoming Twin Galaxies Trilogy') in smaller letters beneath. Her name was at the very bottom.

They were nice looking books.

Finn thought use of line drawings was classy. They reminded him of a contemporary art gallery he had been once to. He put down the second book and picked up his beer, slurping it.

Finn opened 'A Broken Empire' to the first pages of story.

He made a little 'huh' noise. Interesting. What had Poe said about it? He had to start listening to him more. He paused with his thumb on the page and flicked through the rest of the book. What sort of brilliant nonsense had his girl written? Charmed, he kept reading.

And reading.

He stopped when he was halfway through it because his stomach had begun to gnaw at him. Finn dog-earred a page forward to mark his place and held the book out in front of him. She had one hell of an imagination! It was like a science-fiction fairy tale. It was clearly aimed at a youthful audience, but with the undertones of loneliness and responsibility. It might go over the kids' heads, but this was what appealed to the adult following she had garnered. And then there were the aliens...

Finn laid the book aside long enough to make dinner. While the shepherd's pie was cooking he picked it up again. This time he didn't put it down until it was finished, absorbed. By that stage, it was half past three. He had to be up four and a half hours. When he tumbled into sleep he woke up with dreams of the leading characters in 'A Broken Empire', and in the dreams, the characters resembled himself and Rey.

* * *

The week passed in a blur of routine. Waking in the dark, riding the tube, photographing subjects with fake smiles, coming home in the dark. It snowed on Wednesday - just enough to dust the city, and was gone by the next day. He didn't see any of his friends, but they made plans to have dinner Saturday night. Finn found himself looking forward to their company again.

Saturday was _not_ routine. Rather than a long lie-in, he was up as though it was a work day. He took a punishingly hot shower and left the flat while it was still silent and sleepy. Finn grabbed a croissant on the way to the tube, changed trains at Kings Cross to get on the Piccadilly Line and munched the ham and cheese pastry all the way to Piccadilly Circus.

It occurred to Finn that Rey might not be pleased to see him. She had maintained distance in the two weeks since he had seen her last. Finn told himself he didn't care. Everything depended on how she would react when she saw him. He would _know_ , in that moment, if this was worth bearing a torch for. He wanted her, but he could not pine for a girl who did not want him. And that was exactly what he was going to do unless he got this sorted out once and for all.

What hadn't occurred to Finn was the age of the people queued up at Waterstones to have their books signed. There were a lot of kids with adults and he felt fucking weird being a solo male. There were other adults, but they had come in twos or threes. He wished he'd had the forethought to make Hux or Phasma come with him.

Finn purchased his copy of the new book. He had finished the second one over the first three days of the week. It was larger than the first, and work prevented him from reading it in one great go as he had done with 'A Broken Empire'. He stood in line in his jeans and striped jumper, open navy coat and fingerless gloves. The cover was of identical styling to the first two books; the back cover was a detailed line drawing of a solar system. Finn was armed with fresh knowledge about this series and was pleased that he could identify it as the Kotor system.

He waited in line for over an hour. He wished he'd thought to bring something to eat. But he forgot food when he was near enough to the signing table to see Rey. His stomach lurched. She was sitting at a desk in front of two massive photographs. One was a big blow-up of the latest book's cover. The second was one of the shots Finn had taken of her. It was from the waist up. No one but he and Rey knew that she wasn't standing in that picture. She was kneeling on the Georgian sofa and looking very serious; but he remembered she had been trying not to laugh.

She was beautiful, as ever. He was beginning to doubt that she ever had a bad day. He could only see her top half. She wore a fitted black jumper with a scooping u-neck, showing off a black necklace made of big and small circles. Her hair was tied over one shoulder. He watched her as she took books from fans and smiled, making softly-spoken small talk and signing their copies. Most of them wanted a quick photograph, and Finn began to see why he'd had to wait so long in line.

When he stepped up to the desk she was looking down, flexing her hand.

"Writer's cramp?"

Rey recognised his voice at once. He could tell by the way she froze, her fingers paused mid-wiggle. She looked up and Finn immediately knew that this was worth _everything_. The smile escaped before she could appropriately mask her features into what she wanted to show. Rey held out her hand for the book. The ring was on her finger.

Finn stepped closer and passed it to her. "You've got quite an imagination."

"You found out my secret identity."

"Yeah, I had MI5 on it for awhile, it was tough, but we got there."

It was a terrible joke, but she laughed anyway. She opened his book and picked up her pen. "I did say you were stalking me."

"I missed you."

"But you don't know me," she said, shrugging one shoulder as she began to write.

"I will if you let me."

Finn had gone over what they might say to one another a thousand times this past week. He had thought of every clever and sexy phrase that could be dreamt up, but he didn't even reach for them now. He forgot that this was premeditated.

Rey smiled and did not answer right away. She was still writing. Finally, she closed the cover and pushed the book back at him with both hands. He touched them as he lifted it off the table.

"I hope you like it," she said, sincerely.

Moment of truth. "Is that it?" His voice was very soft.

Her eyes dipped to the book, then back up at Finn's. "Yeah, it is." Beat. "I'm glad I saw you again."

Finn nodded curtly and turned, his spot instantly filled with the fan behind him. That was it then. She could have said anything but she had remained smiling and mysterious and aloof. There was nothing he could do with that. He had to stop now.

He opened the book to the flyleaf when he was outside, shielding it from the wind with his body. He braced himself for some crushingly generic, impersonal message.

 _Circle Line, Eastbound Platform, Baker Street._

 _8.30._

Finn closed the book. Okay. Fuck whatever he had been thinking. Fuck all of that. He walked toward the Piccadilly Circus station and fished his phone out of his pocket.

"Phasma - sorry, something's come up. I can't do tonight..."


	8. Chapter 8

Finn didn't have to wait for Rey when he arrived.

He was actually a little late; it had taken him longer to get to the platform than he'd thought. But when he got there, she was waiting, and that gave him a little boost. She stood at the extreme end of the cavernous Circle Line platform in a ruffled back trenchcoat. A brown leather handbag was suspended from one wrist. When she saw him she smiled, and started walking Finn's way.

It was the strangest thing, walking toward Rey. There were no trains in the tunnel nearby which made it eerily quiet. He could hear her heels clipping on the polished concrete floors as she grew steadily closer. A few people lined the walls, waiting for the next train, oblivious to the reunion just about to take place in front of them. This was their only, jointly contrived meeting. All the others had been accidents and surprises. The first deliberate encounter was unfolding faster with every step they took. It would've been enough under any other circumstance to make Finn nervous; but with her, everything just felt right.

They stopped when they were a few feet from one another.

"Hi," she said.

"Hello," Finn replied. He looked down the tracks. The wind was picking up; a train was coming in. "Are we going somewhere?"

"Yes and no," Rey answered, turning her body toward the oncoming train. The wind whipped up her hair and the hem of her coat. She had tights on underneath, dark coloured tights. "You can go round in circles on the Circle Line for hours if you want."

"Is that what we're doing? We could've met somewhere nice for a drink, you know."

Rey flashed him a grin and spoke over the train brakes. "But I live on a train, remember!"

As he followed her into the carriage he realised what she meant.

She'd heard him.

She'd heard what he'd said before he had met her in the studio.

 _My dream girl lives on a train_.

Thank god he'd never finished that sentence.

He sat beside Rey in the centre, choosing the seats which ran along the sides of the train, facing inward. Their hips and thighs pressed against one another. The train was not so crowded. They could've sat further apart if they had wanted to.

* * *

The Circle Line was unique in London. It was the bright yellow line on the tube maps which adorned panels along the curved ceiling of the trains, and it looped around the centre of London. In the north, it mirrored Hammersmith & City and the Metropolitan Lines; in the South, it clung to the District Line. But unlike all of these it did not spread itself out east to west or north to south. It didn't run in an exact circle; the full route was more of a spiral, but where Rey had written they should meet could easily bring them around in a full circle if they changed at Edgware Road. Finn knew somebody who'd gone round and round - he said it was a bit over an hour out of your life.

The doors sealed.

 _Please, mind the gap between the train and the platform_.

Rey's body rocked gently into his.

There was all manner of small talk he could make. But this was Rey's idea, he thought she should have the opportunity to set the tone of conversation. She did, but it took her awhile. They went through Great Portland Street, Euston Square and Farringdon stations. They were not long out of Barbican when she spoke.

"When I need to clear my head I come down here and go round for as long as I need to. I like the motion, watching people as they go on with their lives that you'll never know anything about. It may sound lonely but strangely enough, among these strangers that feeling doesn't seem to happen."

Rey paused.

Finn did not attempt to fill the silence. She seemed to be working herself up to something and he didn't want to interrupt.

"How many times did you see me on the train?"

Finn took a breath. "Three. First time was in August. You were wearing a beige dress."

"I've seen you loads more times than that. I've lost count."

He looked at her for the first time, puzzled. What was she trying to tell him with that confession? He frowned, waiting for her to elaborate. He had the distinct impression his questions wouldn't be welcome.

"You always get on the Central Line at Tottenham," she said, eyes on the empty seat opposite, "and you get off at Lancaster Gate."

"Have you been spying on me?" He didn't find this particular piece of information endearing, actually. In fact, it bothered him that she had apparently seen so much of him for god knew how long, when he had looked so often and never seen her at all.

"No. But I like people watching," she said, lifting her eyes to the tube map spread on the curved space between wall and ceiling. It detailed the Circle Line's route. They were coming into Barbican. "I look. Other people, they don't look. Do you know how many people ride the Central Line on the average weekday?"

"No idea."

"Over 580,000. _580,000_. That's just one line, one city. Can you even imagine what 580,000 people look like? I can't."

"It would look ... chaotic."

"Yeah," she agreed, with feeling. "But 580,000 of them are on those trains every day. Being very orderly in chaos, being very British! Even I can't see them all. I remember a lot of people. Made up names for them in my head. Sometimes weeks or months go by and I don't see them. Too many trains, too many carriages. Too many people. But I don't forget."

Rey glanced at him, very briefly, as if to assure herself he was still listening. She continued. "I see you once every one or two weeks. I look but ... you don't see me. You don't see _anything._ "

Was she insulting him, now? It was difficult to tell. This girl was very far removed from the one he had played Paper Scissors Rock with. This was the girl from the studio, the one he had seen down the lens, with the sad eyes. Sad, perceptive eyes, it seemed.

"Why didn't you ever say anything to me?"

Rey smiled a little at the map. "I like being a stranger. I ..." she looked at him squarely this time. There was something steely, something powerful, in her eyes. "You can be anybody when you're a stranger. No one has to know what language you speak. Where you're from. It's very easy ... being friends with strangers."

"...and all these faces you remember are ... people you collect ... stranger friends?"

She bit her lip and laughed. The strange spell she was weaving with words fractured. "You think I'm weird."

"Yes, I think you're very weird," Finn said seriously, and he was pretty fucking annoyed. He had spent months thinking about her, looking for her, wondering and imagining, and when he finally spoke to her properly she spun some ridiculous bullshit about being a mysterious train girl who had imaginary friendships with strangers. "Why are you even telling me all of this?"

"We met on the 'outside'," she said, still smiling. "And ... I've never played Paper Scissors Rock with a stranger before."

He looked up at the map and shook his head. He looked back at her. "You are the strangest girl I have ever met."

"I'm not what you expected."

"No."

"You're disappointed."

"I didn't say that," Finn argued, and gave her a long, assessing look. "No. I'm not disappointed. Okay... I am disappointed."

He sighed. "I thought... I thought there was something there. You say I don't see anything but I have looked every day for you since I first saw you in August. There was something... Something happened that first time I saw you and you... You just want to be strangers."

He could feel his mood turning sour as the train sped closer to Liverpool Street. "You must have been dead fucking disappointed when you saw who your photographer was."

"I waited for you at the station. But you never came and I had to go."

"No, I waited for _you_ , for like ten minutes, and you never came. You didn't wait half that long. You were in the studio by the time I got there, coat off and comfortable. What about when we saw each other months ago, and the train doors closed? I stood at the station waiting for you to come back then, too, and you knew where I was and you didn't come back."

"What do you want?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

"I'm talking to you now."

"Bullshit you're talking to me now. You're giving me some mystical crap about the romance of being strangers. I bet you spent hours thinking up that shit about how many people travel the line, chaos in numbers. You're a writer, aren't you? That's what you do."

A very uneasy silence fell between them. But when the doors opened at Liverpool Street, neither made a move to disembark. The doors hissed shut and the train pressed on for Tower Hill.

"Okay," Rey said after a few minutes. "Congratulations. You've seen right through me."

"What I don't get," Finn said, not yet out of steam, "is why you bothered asking me here."

"I was hoping," she said, just loud enough to be heard over the train, "that I could scare you off me."

"...what?"

"The first time I saw you was in August, too," Rey admitted, "I haven't been able to write since then."

"But you just had the book -"

She rolled her eyes. "No idiot, that's not how it works. I finished that months ago."

She'd called him an idiot, but Finn was relieved. She was finally talking how she had when they were in the studio. She was being Rey, not whoever she wanted to appear to be. "You haven't been able to write since you saw me."

"No."

"Why not?"

"How should I know?! But I was working on something new and then ... nothing. I can't write anything."

"So you were trying to scare me off so you could write again. Is that it."

"No!" Rey cried. Her calm was shattered, the words no longer coming so easily now that she had detoured from the script. "It's not like that! It's - I had a moment too, okay? When we first saw each other. You were right, it wasn't just you. I felt it too. And since then ..." she dropped her hands in her lap and gave a helpless sigh. "I don't know."

That confession had the anger shift inside Finn and begin to dissipate. It gave him hope, and when he looked at her again, it was with gentler eyes. "I don't understand then, if you kept seeing me why you wouldn't say something..."

Rey held up her hand between them, ring on finger. "I'm engaged."

"I don't -"

"But I care! Lead you on? Lie to my fiancée? I just ... thought it would be better if it went away."

"It hasn't gone away though, has it."

Rey sighed and dropped her hand. "No."

The train stopped at Tower Hill. People were getting off and on, but neither of them were paying attention. He was looking at Rey's knees, and her eyes were on the map. They didn't speak again until the train was well and truly on the way to Monument. They were right underneath old, historical, central London.

"This has never happened to me before, all right?" She said. "I know I was talking a lot of rubbish before... But it wasn't... It wasn't nonsense. I... yeah, okay. What you said - 'the romance of being strangers'. I liked that. It was safe. And... what I was trying to say, and not saying very well, about all the 580,000 people on that line every day was just... What are the odds that I would see you so often? What are the odds of that?"

"I thought the same thing," Finn said. He was relieved she was finally speaking plainly, even if it was paining her to do so. "It just doesn't happen. And then for you to be in the studio, I mean god..."

"I know," she laughed. Rey was looking at him again. Perhaps laughter made her braver. "Your face was amazing."

" _Your_ face!"

"What are the odds," Rey repeated, softer.

Determined to keep the conversation going and not deteriorate into something melancholy, Finn said the first thing that came to mind. "I read your first two books."

"What did you think?"

"I liked them! You've got one hell of an imagination, I'll give you that."

"How did you know about the signing?"

"I," he coughed a little self-consciously, "Googled you."

Rey laughed again. "What _is_ your full name, anyway?"

"Finn Calrissian."

"Finn Calrissian," she repeated. They were quiet the rest of the way to Monument, but the silence was comfortable this time. Companionable. Perhaps they both knew what direction the conversation had to go down next, and were enjoying a friendly, uncomplicated moment while it could last.

After Monument, the track bent them toward Cannon Street.

"It's never happened to me either," Finn offered, leaning sideways toward her. "This... Whatever this is. You wouldn't believe the photographs I started taking after I shot you. Poe said they're the best I've taken in years."

"Oh really? That's good. That's good for you."

"I don't want to keep taking portraits. I just got stuck in a rut."

"What kind of photos do you want to take instead?"

"I dunno. But I finally feel like I could figure that out. You know? You inspired me, I guess. That seems kind of cruel, doesn't it. I finally got my mojo back and you've got writers block. Balance in the universe?"

"Oh shut up," she laughed.

"This is for you," Finn reached inside his coat and pulled a slightly bent and battered yellow envelope from the inside pocket. He passed it to Rey. She opened it carefully and slowly pulled the photograph inside three quarters of the way out. It was the last photograph he had taken of her, the one Poe had said was best, but not what Rey had asked for. "Do you like it?"

She took a deep breath, held it, slowly released it in a long sigh. "I do. It's... It looks like me. You know what I mean." Rey eyed it for a few seconds longer and then gently slid it back into the envelope. She opened the catch on her handbag and very carefully placed the envelope inside. Her long, slender fingers closed the clasp again.

"I'm not leaving my fiancée."

Finn sighed. Yeah. They were at that point in the conversation. He slouched down in the seat, legs spread and feet braced on the floor. He ran his fingers through his buzz cut hair.

Who is he?"

"I think... We should leave him out of it."

"Do you love him?"

"Why would I marry someone I don't love?"

"Why does a girl who has imaginary stranger friends do anything?"

Rey gave a soft, humourless laugh. "Okay, that's fair. Maybe... We could be friends?"

"Friends." Finn raked his fingers through his hair again and dropped them to his sides. "You know it's not possible for a man and a woman to be friends unless they're fucking, _have_ fucked, or intend _to_ fuck, don't you?"

She fiddled with the strap of her handbag and mumbled, "...yeah. Yeah I know that. I just ... I'm not being fair."

"You're faithful to him."

Rey nodded. "Yeah."

"I actually like that about you. I am such a fucking wanker." He heard her laugh softly. "Fine. Whatever you want. Let's be friends and pretend that's all it is."

It was better than not seeing her at all. They passed Cannon Street and Mansion House, the train powering ahead to Blackfriars.

"I think you're supposed to believe in my life," Rey said.

"Last time, you scoffed when I suggested fate."

"I still don't believe in it. But I believe in amazing coincidences."

Finn snorted. Then, on a far more serious note, he added, "this is going to be hard. You know that, right?"

"Are you seeing anyone?"

"Trying to."

Finn sighed. "What are you doing tomorrow?"

"Nothing."

"I'm going to head out ... I don't even know where yet, but just take some photographs. I was in Trafalgar Square last week and for the first time in... in ever, probably... I really looked around. You were right, earlier. You said I don't see anything. Or you were half right - I didn't see anything, but I'm changing that. There was this statue with these men dying and crawling over one another and underneath it said, 'England expects every man to do his duty.'"

"Yeah, I know that one. It's grim, isn't it?"

"Fuck yeah, it is. It just ... I don't know. Opened my eyes. I wanna just wander around and _see_ the city, properly, take pictures. Do you wanna come with me?"

"Okay," Rey agreed, quicker than he'd thought. "Yeah, that'd be good."

The train chewed up the tracks. While they were stopped at Blackfriars, the doors hanging open to the station platform, Rey spoke again.

"Where do you connect from? When you get on at Tottenham."

"Northern Line," Finn answered as the doors hissed shut. He could hear the mind the gap announcement through the doors at the train accelerated into the narrow tunnel, leaving the station lights behind.

Rey slid down in the seat beside Finn. She moved into a slouch similar to his, and it didn't look comfortable, but he said nothing because her head was now resting against his shoulder. After a few seconds, he rested his hand on her knee, over those dark coloured tights. His head rested beside hers. They were in a period of transition. Before they had gotten on the train they been separate with their curiosities and misunderstandings. When they disembarked they would have to take a new path, two parallel paths that never quite crossed; friends. But for now there was the slow spiral of the Circle Line, a safe and neutral place, and Finn thought he understood why Rey came down here to clear her head.

They passed several stations in silence. Temple. Embankment. Westminster. At St James's Park he said, "I can't believe I fancy a _white girl_ ," and they giggled most of the way to Victoria.

"An English _white girl_ ," Rey added, and that tided them over with more giggles the rest of the way. Neither of them were particularly funny, but it alleviated the tension that had almost thickened between them.

After Victoria, he asked her for her phone number, fishing his mobile out of his pocket. After she put in her number he called her just to be certain she had really given him her right numbers, which earned him a sharp jab in the ribs. He laughed his way through the pain and took the opening to put his arm around her shoulders, gently stroking her hair.

"Finn..."

"It's fine. This is enough," he lied. She didn't protest again and by the way she relaxed, he knew she liked it.

At Sloane Square a little boy got on the train with his father. He sat on dad's knee in a knitted cap stitched to look like a dog, long brown ears hanging down the side of his head. Finn estimated he was no more than two. The boy watched them constantly, curiously, his face open with wonder where all adults shut down. Finn found himself smiling at the boy, who never once smiled back. And as the train slowed at South Kensington, dad got ready to disembark. The boy's placid expression suddenly shattered. Betrayal rocked his features and a few seconds later he was howling. It was only when the train had stopped and they were gone that Finn realised Rey was shaking. And laughing _._

"What did you do?" Finn murmured the accusation into her hair. "You did something."

"He kept staring at us!"

"What did you do?"

"May have... may have made faces at him."

"What face?"

So Rey tipped her head back and showed him a truly grotesque face. He laughed so hard that he barely made a sound, and his body shook so much that Rey was not able to lean against him again until Gloucester Road.

"Does the last book have a happy ending?"

"Don't you want to read it yourself?" Rey asked.

"Yeah but ... tell me."

"No and... yes. It's happy for some. I won't tell you more. Read it and tell me if you think it's a happy ending."

He was sure he felt her smile against his shoulder. He felt powerfully in tune with her, though she was still practically just a weird stranger. "You fancy me," Finn said.

She slapped his knee a _nd what he could see of her face was turning pink._

"You hadn't said so. In so many words."

"Well. I do. But I can't so... "

Finn's fingers dropped to her shoulder and squeezed. He didn't have words for that, or at least not any that were appropriate. They went quietly through High Street Kensington and Notting Hill Gate, where they overlapped the Central Line, and continued to Bayswater. Edgware Road would be the last stop on the line, and they could change there to resume the loop ... start again, if they wanted, but Finn thought that probably unwise.

"I wish we could stay on here all night," Rey said.

"Yeah. Yeah. Me too."

"But I'll see you tomorrow," Rey added, trying to sound more cheerful, though they both knew it would not be like this tomorrow. "Where do you want to meet?"

Finn thought that over. Trafalgar Square was an obvious place. "Covent Garden. There's a pub there, called The Pazaak. You know it?"

"Is that in Chandos Place?"

"Yeah."

"I know it. I can meet you there at like ... what, tennish?"

"Tennish it is then."

Rey nodded against his shoulder. There wasn't much time remaining for their journey. Sitting there quietly together seemed to be enough for both of them. There were not words to make any of this easier. This was peaceful, the beautiful rocking of the train, propelling them beneath London bustling above.

The train terminated at Edgware Road. Finn and Ret rose when the doors opened and without even thinking about it, their hands came together and fingers entwined. The station was open-air rather than subterranean, and they shivered as they walked for the transfer to Baker Street. A train was waiting for them, warm air enveloping their bodies once they stepped inside, seconds before chimes sounded and doors shut. This time, they didn't bother sitting down. They stood together with the nearest pole between them. Finn's arm gathered around Rey's waist and they stood close, so close as the train accelerated, the pole pressing against Finn's shoulder. Their legs were braced to keep their balance, each holding the pole and one another.

"I have to change at Baker Street," she explained.

"All right," Finn nodded, unable to break eye contact. He already knew he would be staying on the train until Kings Cross St Pancras.

The proximity was not a good idea, not when they had agreed to be just friends. But they were still in transition, and everything would change once they left the underground. There was something undeniable and real between them that could never become anything on the surface. Yet it was here, alive now, for just a few more minutes.

Finn kissed her around the pole. The train shuddered and pushed Rey into him, something he took immediate advantage of by holding her tighter. The taste of her was yet so new to him, intoxicating and exciting, thrilling his heart into faster beats. He kissed her harder, searchingly, this would be the last time.

Rey's head tipped back and her fingers clutched at his shoulder, giving herself completely to him for just a few precious, fleeting minutes.

The train was slowing into Baker Street. They broke, standing with their foreheads touching, rocking in time with the train.

"Rey," he said.

The Baker Street tunnel expanded around the train, bright and unwelcome. The brakes screeched offensively. The doors opened. He had to let her go, and his arm fell from her as Rey stepped back.

"See you tomorrow," she said, and got off the train.

Finn didn't ask her to stay, and Rey didn't look back.


End file.
